The old man was not one to seek for sympathy, nor even to tolerate much manifestation of it. The only being to whom for many weeks he mentioned his dead son's name was a superannuated stable-helper, who had set "Master George" on his first pony, and in whose mind that somewhat selfish and hardhearted individual had never outgrown the engaging period of boyhood. "Master George" was the old man's idol, and "Master George" had, to a great extent, reciprocated the man's liking, partly, perhaps, from the sort of gratified vanity which makes us all prize the exclusive attachment of any generally unamiable creature, biped or quadruped. Old Dick was characterized by his fellow-servants as a crusty old curmudgeon, and was notorious for a formidable power of swearing, which he wielded freely, without much respect of persons. The first day after receiving the news of his son's death, Lord Castlecombe towards evening walked out in a very unfrequented part of the grounds, a path between two high holly hedges, leading by a back way to the stable-yard; and there, with his hat pulled low on his brow, his head bent, and his hands clasped behind him, he paced slowly, plunged in bitter meditation. When he came to the corner whence the stables were visible, he caught sight of old Dick seated on an ancient horse-block, and busily rubbing at something in his hand. Lord Castlecombe stopped short, and looked at the man, who evidently saw him, but made no sign, neither ceased a moment from his occupation. After a minute or so Lord Castlecombe called to him to ask what he was doing, and received no answer. He repeated his question. Still no reply. A third time he spoke, in a harsh, angry tone. And then Dick turned round upon him, and, with a tremendous volley of oaths, answered furiously, "What am I doing of? I'm a rubbing up Master George's little silver spurs as you gave him first time he ever rode to hounds. I've allus kep' 'em bright from that day to this. And I arn't a-going to leave off now, because some d----d blundering fool as didn't ought never to have been trusted with a gun--I wish I'd the rewarding of him, curse him!--has been and put an end to the boy. That's what I'm a doing of, if ye _must_ know!" A tear fell on the little burnished spur; and then another, and another. But old Dick rubbed on. And his master, after a short silence, came and laid his hand upon his shoulder, and then walked away without a word. After that Dick was privileged to do what the boldest parson's wife in the county dared not attempt:--talk to Lord Castlecombe about his son George.